


He Can Be the One You Run to, The One that Saves You

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Anchorless ex-soldiers, Canon Major Character Death, Comfort, Confrontation, Depression, Drinking, Feels, Gen, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Murder Husbands, Post-Reichenbach, SebastJohn - Freeform, back from the dead, judgemental detectives, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian's wandering around lost without Jim when he meets the man to blame for all of it: John Watson. John's got no idea who this drunk guy is but Moriarty's name still makes him furious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from 'Daddy' - Emeli Sande

Sebastian’s watching the street for Dr Watson as ordered when there’s a shot that almost breaks his concentration. He doesn’t waver though, too well-trained for that. If there’s a problem Jim will call him; if not he can’t afford to miss his target.

The doctor gets out of a cab, phone clamped to his ear. He stops, turns, stops again. His face is torn. He’s staring at the roof, at the tall thin figure Sebastian knows must be on the edge – must be. Jim planned it that way, so it couldn’t be anything else.

John’s mouth twitches and clenches in a mad whirlwind of desperation and sadness and Sebastian almost wishes he could look at Holmes and get the other half of the story. But his job is Watson, and it’s on his face that he reads the moment Sherlock jumps. There’s something so harrowing there, a kind of palpable grief that sticks in the sniper’s throat. The doctor runs towards the hospital and he follows him in the sight, sees the limp dark-haired body on the pavement. It’s over then.

He snaps the rifle off the tripod and starts packing quickly. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out, opening the message from Jim. The time doesn’t match up – he must have delayed sending it.

_Sebby, chances are I’m dead. Mind cleaning me off the roof before the cops come?_

The rifle case slips from Sebastian’s hand. That goddamn shot.

** _Three months later_ **

Sebastian walks casually through the front doors, head up like he’s supposed to be there. His scars are too obvious to pass for a doctor but the EMT jacket suits him fine. No one stops him as he takes the lift up to the top floor and sidles over to the roof access. The door’s not locked – why would it be? Even if the hospital had stepped up security since the Sherlock debacle, the nurses still need somewhere to smoke.

He climbs the stairs deliberately, eyes on his feet as if counting the steps will delay getting to the top. You wanted to come here, he reminds himself. You needed to.

He opens the door and steps out onto the concrete. It’s different at night, dark, full of strange half-seen shapes. The surrounding buildings don’t cast much light but it’s enough to make out the stain where he dragged Jim’s body into the black plastic bag. Sebastian shucks off the jacket, indifferent to the cold. He embraces it, that cutting feeling that says he’s still alive no matter how numb he feels inside.

He takes the whiskey from his bag, the half-empty bottle sloshing sadly as he picks a spot near the edge and settles on the bare rooftop. Sebastian takes a swig and the burn is soothing, destroying him at the same time.

“God, why’d you have to go and be such a prat?” he laughs at the head-shaped stain, “Didn’t even wait to see him jump.”

 

The whiskey’s almost finished, Sebastian’s breath a constant fog in front of his face as the temperature drops. He stares at that stupid bloody mark on the roof, almost a perfect outline of his boss, knows exactly where the gun lay in his hand. Coward didn’t even use guns normally. It’s not funny but he laughs anyway, the chuckle sticking in his throat until it becomes a sob. Tears flow down Sebastian’s face as he moans, shoulders finally shaking under the weight of his loss. There’s nothing but silence up here, silence and the cold and the sniper shaking over a self-important little Irishman.

The roof door opens and Sebastian immediately stops, scrubbing a hand over his eyes to clear his vision. There’s a figure in the dim light of the doorway, male by the look of it. If Sebastian doesn’t move he might have his smoke and go back in without noticing the blond.

He comes closer though, hands in his pockets and head down as if he’s not really seeing anything. He steps into the light from a nearby sign and Sebastian stiffens. He’s reaching into his waistband for his gun when the man looks up and spots him.

“Oh, sorry. I uh, I didn’t think anyone was going to be up here.”

Sebastian doesn’t say anything for a moment, too angry to speak. The whiskey bottle slips from his fingers and rolls over the floor with a clink.

“Hey, you alright?” the other man frowns.

“I know you.”

“Oh.” He almost sighs.

“Captain John Watson. _Dr_ John Watson.”

John rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Look, sorry if I disturbed you, but if you’re about to give me a nice lecture you can save it-”

“I’m not going to give you a lecture.”

Sebastian picks himself up, and even after all the booze his limbs retain that balance he’s hammered into them over years of training. He looms over John, the smaller man suddenly looking uncertain in the dark loneliness of the roof.

“I’m going to tell you a story.”

“Um, okay.”

“I had this boss. He was a bit of a loon, prone to tantrums but fucking brilliant. I mean, he saw the world spread out in front of him like a grid I s’pose, like it all made sense in its orderly rows and he could play the squares against each other like it was nothing.”

John takes a step back but Sebastian closes the distance, not too close yet.

“I don’t think I loved him. You can’t love a man like that, especially when you’re just one of the squares. But he gave my life something, you know? A structure I’d been missing. He gave me range to use my talents.”

“He sounds great.” John splutters.

“He wasn’t. Total prick, actually. He became obsessed with this one job. Couldn’t think of anything else, gave up his whole life planning it, all to get the attention of some poncey bloke.”

“What did you say your name was?” John’s eyes narrow.

“I had my part. Set up across the street, watch the faithful sidekick and pull the trigger if the puppets wouldn’t dance the way Jim wanted.”

“You worked for Moriarty.” John says flatly, mouth thin.

“Yeah, I worked for him. I sat by that window and followed you through my scope and while you were weeping over poor dead Sherlock, I had to come over here and scrape the boss’ brains off the floor.” He growls, raising the gun.

 

John holds his hands up. “Hey, I didn’t kill Moriarty! I didn’t know he was definitely dead until two seconds ago.”

“Shot himself. Didn’t even warn me.”

Sebastian lets the gun fall weakly, his anger replaced by the old bitterness. He trudges back to his spot and leans down, shaking the whiskey bottle to check its contents and tossing it aside. John purses his lips.

“Well you’ll forgive me if I don’t shed a tear over Jim Moriarty – or you, Mr Pointed-a-Gun-at-My-Head! The man was a psychopath. He deserved to die.”

“No one _deserves_ to die, Dr Watson. I’m a hitman and even I know that.”

“Well he deserved it a lot more than Sherlock! All he ever did was try to help people, and your beloved boss forced him off a building because he couldn’t handle the competition!”

Sebastian lunges forward, right in John’s face, but the shorter man doesn’t back down. “Help people? Your precious Sherly never cared about anyone but himself. He did what he did for his own amusement and you know it.”

“He _cared_.” John insists.

“Did you love him John? Did your life lose all meaning when he left?” his voice twists harsh and mocking.

“Fuck you! Fuck you, and fuck Moriarty! You may not deserve to die but you certainly don’t deserve to live.”

Sebastian chuckles, stepping back. “Maybe so, doctor. But they would have played out their game without me. You and I, at the end of the day, we didn’t mean anything to them. At least not as much as each other.”

He gazes at the skyline. John frowns as his resentment recedes, taking in the empty rooftop. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“Nostalgia?” Sebastian shrugs.

“Were you...were you going to jump?”

“No,” he scowls scornfully, neglecting to mention he’d thought about putting a bullet through his skull, “Were you?”

“No.”

Sebastian tilts his head sceptically. “Really?”

“Really. I just...I couldn’t sit alone in my flat anymore.”

“You’re not still at 221B?”

John swallows. “No. Not for a month now.”

The ex-colonel nods as if that’s a good answer. “Look at us. Supposed to be tough and we’re up here falling to pieces.”

The doctor scuffs his toe against the ground, hands in his pockets. “Sometimes I wish he was still alive so I could wring his neck.”

Sebastian laughs, the hard barking sound echoing over the still corners of the roof. He kicks the empty bottle softly and sighs.

“You aren’t going to kill me, are you?”

He shakes his head. “Jim said to leave you alone if Sherlock followed through. Last orders.”

“Then do you want to get away from this godforsaken place and have another drink?”

Sebastian looks down his long, crooked nose thoughtfully. “Why?”

It’s John’s turn to shrug. “Why the fuck not?”

 

They skip the pub; Sebastian’s too drunk to get in anyway and they’re both too mopey. There’s too much of a risk they’ll start bawling after a couple of shots. John grabs a bottle of something horrid and cheap and they walk to his new flat. It’s close to the hospital and Sebastian wonders if that was on purpose. He wonders how many nights John goes up to the roof.

The place is alright, a bit shabby, but he’s inherited a few of Sherlock’s things and it gives a sort of diluted Baker St atmosphere. Sebastian throws his coat over the arm of the stained plaid couch and flops down, legs crossed as he slumps in the seat. John comes back from the kitchen and pours two glasses, pressing one into his hand.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“Planning to turn me in tomorrow morning?”

“No. Wouldn’t do much good, would it?”

“Moran. Sebastian Moran.”

“ _Basher_ Moran? _Tiger_ Moran?” John gapes.

It’s a long time since he’s heard the nicknames but they bring the same smug smile as always. “That’s me.”

“You’re a fucking legend. What were you doing blowing people’s heads off for Jim Moriarty?”

“I was discharged, had nothing else to do. How did you end up running around after Sherlock Holmes?”

John smiles ruefully. “Everybody knows that story.”

He takes a sip and winces at the heavy paint-stripper flare of the alcohol. Sebastian doesn’t notice so much, his nerves already dulled. “You ever think things would have been better if that bullet had finished you off?”

John settles further into the cushions next to him. “I used to, before I met Sherlock. But even after everything I wouldn’t want to miss knowing him.”

Sebastian nods and swigs half his glass in one go.

“Did you ever regret working for Jim?”

He grins wolfishly. “Loved every fucking second of it.”

 

Even though they’re both feeling sorry for themselves, it’s hard to sustain that sort of melancholy when there’s liquor and someone to talk to, and in another hour or two they’re reminiscing about the army and tigers and John’s trip to Baskerville, laughing quietly. John thinks Moran with his clearly broken nose and scar-covered hands is the kind of man he could have gotten along with under other circumstances. He’s the kind you’d want on your side in a fight, jolly and coarse and very practical. He’s telling him about a difficult CO in Afghanistan when Sebastian snorts and rolls his head back.

“Come on, Johnny. No hard-arse officer in the world could compare to living with a genius.”

“That’s true. Always coming home to god knows what in the kitchen, bloody harpoons in the lounge, endless fighting over whose turn to get milk.”

“Jim was a nightmare. Had to take my boots off at the door, had to be invisible and silent when he wanted to be alone, watched the _worst_ TV-”

“At least yours watched TV! I got mocked for so much as turning on the news!”

“And I bet the bastard never thanked you for any of it, the cooking, the shopping, watching his back?”

“No, never,” John snickers softly, “But that was Sherlock. He didn’t know how to talk to people, really. Took everything for granted.”

He pours the last of the bottle into Sebastian’s glass.

“What about you? I don’t see Jim being the appreciative type.”

“It was different – looking after him was my job. I didn’t need his gratitude,” he finishes the glass and shakes off his sudden gloom with a smile, “Plus, you know, he was completely mad.”

“You said you didn’t love him but...there was something between you?”

“We fucked, if that’s what you’re asking.” He smirks.

John blushes. “I wasn’t, I just, uh...”

“You were. You and Sherly never did it, but I bet you wondered sometimes.”

“People thought Sherlock wasn’t interested in sex – that he had better things to do, the way he didn’t like to sleep or eat during cases. It wasn’t like that at all. He got off on it every day. Not the way Donovan meant it, like some sicko pervert, but he got this rush. He didn’t need sex because he was constantly satisfied, and no human being could compete with a perfect deduction.”

“Not even you?”

“Nope.” John pops his lips.

Sebastian leans forward. “If knowledge is power and power is an aphrodisiac, then our boys would have made the ultimate couple.”

“And god help the rest of us. Was that what you liked about Jim? His power?”

“I liked his style. I liked his control. You never really leave the army, John.”

“I know what you mean.”

 

They sit quietly, John tipping his glass from side to side. Sebastian nods at the bottle. “We out?”

“Yeah. Guess I should go to bed.”

“Guess so.”

“You could stay. The couch isn’t very big but it’s comfy enough.”

Sebastian’s eyes twinkle. “Bit of an odd offer, isn’t it? Once I would have killed you in your sleep and now you’re letting me crash on your couch.”

“There’s no one pulling the strings now.”

“Just us pawns.”

John’s gaze sweeps over him, a slightly curious edge to it. Sebastian bites his lip. The doctor’s softened from his time as a civilian, the hard military build slipping but still there for the moment. It’s his face that looks the oldest, the heavy stress lines around his eyes that weren’t there three months ago. Sebastian reaches up and runs his finger along them gently.

“What are you doing?” John whispers.

“I don’t know anymore.”

John doesn’t brush him away but after a moment Sebastian’s hand falls. The doctor half-turns. They’re so close on the couch, the bigger man’s body taking up so much space. He can feel the heat of John across the gap between them.

He sighs. “Me either.”

Sebastian sees the pleading look, the tiny quiver in his voice. He sits forward and rubs a hand along John’s jaw slow enough that the other man can pull away if he wants, but he doesn’t. He brushes their lips together and John latches onto his shoulders. It’s desperate and sloppy but it’s not fast, their mouths moving wetly. Sebastian runs large calloused hands over John’s neck and the doctor leans into the touch. Suddenly he pulls back, lips parted.

“Will you stay?”

Sebastian knows the real question there. Will you desert me too? He shakes his head. “I can’t make promises like that.”

“For now then. Will you stay for now?”

“Yeah.”

John guides him back with a hand in his hair, crushing their lips into another kiss. Sebastian lets himself be pushed down on the couch, feels the other man climbing over him slowly. He doesn’t seem nervous or unsure, just careful, and Sebastian runs a hand along his spine to reassure him the sniper won’t break.

 

He wants this. He wants to drink in the goodness that is John Watson, to let him take over as master, to follow his example. He could see himself waking up every morning next to that sandy head and buying him new ridiculous jumpers and laughing over Christmas dinner with his family. He could see himself falling in love with John – not because he was an irresistible force like Jim, but because under the skin they were the same and yet so very, very different.

Some panicked little voice in his head yells at him to run. There’s nothing but pain here, and when it’s gone what will they have left?

“I can’t replace Sherlock.” He murmurs out, making John stop and look at him.

“No one can. Isn’t that the problem? We both lost our anchors.”

“You think we can do this without drifting away then?”

“I think we stand a better chance together.”

John stands and offers his hand.

“Come on. The bed’s not huge but it’s bigger than this piece of shit.”

Sebastian examines the soft pale skin, the fingers extended to reach across the abyss and pull him out. He manages a smile. “What possessed you to buy it anyway?”

John’s grin grows unhurriedly. “Well I didn’t expect to be needing it for this sort of thing.”

Sebastian slips his hand into the doctor’s and gets to his feet, following him to the bedroom with a chuckle.


	2. Chapter 2

“Seb? Seb, have you seen my keys?” John rushes into the kitchen, straightening his shirt.

Sebastian holds them up and sips his coffee.

“Ah, legend.” John kisses his cheek.

“Have fun with your infirm.”

“I’ll try. It’s your turn to cook tonight.”

“Any requests?”

John looks at the ceiling thoughtfully. “That Indian chicken thing you do?”

The ex-colonel smiles. “I think I can manage that.”

Sebastian grabs his wrist and spins the doctor into his arms, pressing a chaste kiss to his neck as his hands sweep lower. John gasps and pushes him back.

“Hey! I’m going to be late.”

“And whose fault is that?” Sebastian smirks.

“Bye!”

He pounds down the stairs, definitely going to be late now. John steps into the street and looks around for a cab.

“John?”

Watson stops, sucking in a breath. “I must be going crazy.”

“No more than usual.”

Soft footsteps make him turn and he almost screams at the dark coat and curly hair.

“No - no it can’t be you. You’re dead, I know it. I saw it!”

Sherlock avoids his gaze but John can’t stand it.

“Sherlock? Sherlock look at me! The least you can do is look at me!”

Those pale blue eyes he’s dreamt about for months meet his and John can’t breathe. His knees buckle and he sinks to the pavement.

 

Sebastian rinses his mug and leaves it in the sink, heading for the bathroom. He’s got time for a quick shower before he has to be at the range. As he passes the couch he spots John’s bag and curses.

“God, he’d forget his head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

Sebastian quickly grabs a jacket and pants, running downstairs with the bag. He’ll drop it off, maybe have a quickie and then head to work. As he opens the street door Sebastian draws up short. John’s on his knees in front of a tall man, eyes wet with tears.

He doesn’t think twice. The man is thinner than Sebastian, almost waifish, and no match for him. How he managed to take out someone as bulky as John is a mystery, but not one the sniper has time for. He drops John’s bag and launches himself at the unknown, arm slipping around his neck to cut off his air.

“No, no Seb wait! Let him go!” John’s face regains some of its animation.

“What did he do?” Moran spits through his teeth as the man tugs at his hold, but he’s too angry and there’s no way the bastard’s getting free.

The doctor struggles to his knees. “It’s Sherlock! It’s Sherlock, let him go!”

Sebastian’s grip fails and the detective lurches forward. He stares at the same sharp cheekbones, the same wild hair, the same goddamn coat by the looks of things. Holmes rubs his throat, coughing, and John places a hand on his back.

“I’m sorry, he didn’t know.”

“You’re supposed to be dead.” Sebastian says flatly.

“Well clearly I’m not.” Sherlock wheezes.

Moran laughs so suddenly, so loudly it shocks the other two completely still. He laughs hysterically, hunching over and squeezing his knees.

“Seb?” John takes a step closer.

“Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus that is just perfect, isn’t it?”

“John?” Sherlock frowns.

“Seb, let’s go inside.” John says carefully.

The blond nods, eyes fixed on Sherlock. “Alright.”

 

He sits listlessly on the couch while John hands them all tea. Sherlock looks uncomfortable, perching on the edge of his chair. It cheers Sebastian up a little.

“This is incredible. I watched you jump off a building.” John half-laughs.

“It had to be convincing.”

“So convincing you couldn’t tell me?”

Sherlock grimaces. “Forgive me for being crude, but your reaction was vital to my death being believable.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot for showing me how important I was by making me feel completely unimportant.” John smiles tightly.

“I didn’t have a choice, John. Moriarty was going to kill you!”

Sebastian crosses his legs, turning more into the corner of the couch. John lays a reassuring hand on his knee.

“I know.”

“Then you know why I did it.”

John sighs heavily. “It’s not that simple.”

“I realise that. I’ve betrayed you, in a way. But I hope you can forgive me, and in time we can go back to the way things were.”

John bites his lip. “I’ve missed you, Sherlock, but I don’t know-”

Sebastian stands violently.

“Seb?”

“I should leave you to it.”

“You don’t have to go.”

“I have to get to work anyway.”

“Seb!”

He breezes out, tugging the door shut behind him. Sherlock frowns.

“He’s your flatmate?”

John looks at him accusingly. “You know he’s more than that.”

“I suppose I couldn’t expect you not to move on with your life-”

“No, you bloody well couldn’t!” John explodes, “ _You_ _left me_ , Sherlock! And yeah, I’m not saying I didn’t wish every day you’d come back but you can’t just turn up and expect me to be okay with it!”

The brunette looks ashamed. “You’re right, of course. You were always right, John. I just...I missed you too. It seems I need my blogger after all.”

*****

Sebastian breathes out loudly and tucks the rifle further into his shoulder. He focuses on the target and squeezes the trigger, firing in succession at the far-off red dot. He always feels better like this, cold metal solid in his hands, the booming shots, the satisfaction of a well-placed round. Right now it feels especially good picturing the target as Sherlock’s head. After all the games and obsession and grief and the agony he’d watched John go through, that arse just shows up on the front doorstep like nothing happened? He growls and fires again.

Sebastian lowers the gun to reload and casts a perfunctory look around for customers. He can’t be fucked even pretending to care but he doesn’t want to lose his job as well as-

No, he shakes his head, you can’t think that.

Can’t you?

A hand rests on his arm and he takes the earmuffs off.

“Hi.” John smiles.

“Hey. How’d things go with, uh, with...”

“Fine. I refrained from punching him in the face and we made plans to talk again in a few days.”

“Right. You must be thrilled to see him.”

“I guess. I mean, yeah, absolutely, just...still in shock I suppose.”

Sebastian nods and slides the empty magazine out, tossing it aside as he jams the new one in.

“So you can go back to your crime-solving,” he smiles wryly, “Catching the bad guys and saving people.”

“Maybe. I’ve barely processed it yet.” John leans against the side of the booth.

Sebastian raises the rifle and shoots, oblivious to the noise or the way John winces.

“How are you?”

He scowls. “What do you mean?”

John shrugs. “This must be hard. I mean, we both lost someone and now mine’s come back. You don’t think maybe...”

“Jim’s dead,” Sebastian cuts the words off between clenched teeth, “I know that.”

“I thought I knew Sherlock was dead. I mean if he can fake falling off a building, surely Moriarty can manage a gunshot-”

“He’s dead, John! I zipped him in the bag myself, I burned the body. He’s not coming back.”

Sebastian’s chest heaves and he blinks back unwanted tears. John presses his lips together.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“Yeah, well I did a lot of things for Jim I shouldn’t have, but it’s too late now.”

They’re silent as he reloads again and then John stands.

“I should get to the clinic. I’m already so late. You still making chicken?”

Sebastian’s eyes flick up, brow furrowing. “You still want me to?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, if you’re up for it. We can always get takeaway but you know it goes straight to my hips.” He jokes.

Sebastian doesn’t say anything and John’s smile fades. He kisses the blond’s forehead.

“I’ll see you at home.”

“Sure.”

The doctor walks away, leaving him to scrub a hand over his chin and scowl. There’s no way Jim survived.

*****

“You’re going out?”

John looks over at the tight, strained tone. Sebastian leans on the bedroom door, arms crossed.

“I’m meeting Sherlock for a drink.”

“Don’t tell me the Reichenbach Hero has vices?”

“He doesn’t, but I feel more comfortable meeting him at the pub than 221B. Is that okay?”

Sebastian looks down, arms crossing tighter. “Makes sense.”

John sighs and takes his arms, forcibly unfolding them. “Look. I know you don’t like Sherlock – you’ve got no reason to. But he’s my friend and I’m going to have a drink with him, that’s all.”

“Sure. You should see him.”

He frowns. “Seb, I’m not moving back to Baker Street.”

“What? I didn’t ask-”

“I know, but I can tell you’re worried. Don’t be.”

He gathers the taller man in his arms, basically forcing a hug on him.

“You told me once you couldn’t replace Sherlock. Well he can’t replace you either.”

“I thought maybe once you had him back you wouldn’t need me anymore.” Sebastian murmurs.

“Don’t be an idiot. I’m not in love with Sherlock.”

The blond raises a brow at the implication. “Sure? Once upon a time...”

“Once upon a time I didn’t have you. How could anyone compete with that?”

“Alright,” Sebastian grumbles, “Go have your drink before you embarrass us both.”

John smiles and kisses him, breaking away. “I’ll be home around ten.”

“Have fun.”

The ex-soldier leaves and Sebastian crosses to the window, waiting until he appears in the street below. The short figure heads down the sidewalk towards the Tube station and Sebastian rests his palm against the glass. John Watson wants him now, yes, but what about when there are exciting cases and villains to chase and the sharp, witty quips of the heroic detective?

 

John walks into the pub. It’s dreary and foul and the last sort of place Sherlock would want to be, but he’s trying to be a good friend so the detective’s sitting stiffly at a table holding a beer he won’t drink. He brightens momentarily as John enters, looking almost flushed as the blond sits.

“Hey.”

“Hello. How, um, how are you?”

“Good, thanks.”

“I got you a beer.” Sherlock pushes a second pint across the table.

“Cheers.”

They sit quietly for a moment, John spreading his fingers over the tabletop with an intent look to avoid Sherlock’s gaze.

“You’re still working at the clinic then?”

“Yeah, yeah. Full-time now.” John nods.

“Enjoying it?”

“I like helping people.” He takes a sip, brushing the condensation off the side of the glass as he puts it down.

“Do you ever see the others? Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson?”

“Mrs Hudson and I take tea every now and then. Greg comes to the pub when he’s got a bad case. But Molly...no, I haven’t seen her. She always said no whenever I tried to meet up.”

Sherlock purses his lips guiltily. “I put her in an awkward position.”

“I’m sure you’ll make it up to her.”

“I’ll try. And your more-than-flatmate...things are going well with him?”

John sighs. “Sherlock, you may have been dead for the past year but you’re still you. You probably know more about Sebastian than I do by now.”

“Then you know he worked for Moriarty?”

“Yes.”

“That he was supposed to kill you if I didn’t jump?” Sherlock says incredulously.

“He told me the first night we met.”

“And you’re living together anyway.”

“He doesn’t work for Moriarty anymore.”

“He’s still a killer, John.”

Watson slaps the table, white froth spilling over the rim of their glasses. “Damn it, Sherlock! You don’t get to lecture me about him!”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, of course-”

“Bloody hell, I know I’m right! You let me think you were dead, and I met Sebastian and we just...clicked, alright? You can’t come in now and give me dating advice. I know exactly what kind of man he is, thank you very much.”

“I apologise for overstepping. I only said it because I am concerned.”

“Well don’t be. Seb’s got a normal job, we’re living together, it’s all very Brady Bunch really.”

“But he doesn’t like me.”

John snorts. “Don’t sound so surprised. Very few people like you.”

Sherlock smiles. “You liked me, once.”

“If you’re very lucky I might be persuaded to like you again.” John takes a sip cheerily.

“Do you love him?” the detective asks solemnly.

John lowers his glass slowly, smiling. “I don’t know. I think so.”

“Then I won’t interfere.”

“Thank you.”

*****

The more Sebastian thinks about it, the less certain he becomes that Jim’s really dead. He burned a body, yes, but how could he be sure it was actually Jim? His boss could certainly afford the plastic surgery to create a decoy. There had been enough time between the gunshot and Sebastian getting to the Bart’s roof for Jim to arrange someone else on the concrete. He curses himself for not checking properly and considers very discreetly putting out his feelers, but he knows Jim won’t be found unless he wants to be.

It’s an absurd notion, really – suicide is exactly the kind of unpredictable trick Moriarty would have played, but Sebastian can’t get the idea out of his head. If Sherlock could come back, why couldn’t Jim? Maybe in a week he’s be the one kneeling on the pavement at someone’s feet. And what would he do then? What was Jim to him now?

The two thoughts wrestle in his gut like a pair of tigers, snarling and snapping their jaws. What if Jim isn’t really dead? vs. What if he is? Sebastian’s not sure which is worse.

 

John’s phone rings shrill and loud and he rolls over with a groan. Sebastian shifts in bed beside him and the doctor quickly answers before he wakes up.

“Hello?”

“John, just got a call from Lestrade. Can you meet me at Trafalgar Square?”

“Sherlock, it’s two in the morning.”

“Murderers don’t have nine to five office hours, John.”

“Look, uh...I’ll be there in fifteen, alright?”

“Thank you.”

He hangs up with a sigh, unwilling to get out from under the covers.

“Case?” Sebastian mutters.

“Yeah. Murder, apparently.”

“Does he know how late it is?”

“He doesn’t sleep, so I doubt he cares.”

“Jim was like that.” Sebastian says quietly.

Something in his tone makes John frown. “I don’t have to go. I can call him back, say it’s ridiculous-”

“No, you should check it out. Murder’s a bad business. Help Sherlock.”

“Okay. Sorry I woke you.”

Sebastian smiles grimly and rolls over, wrapping himself in the warmth of their sheets. John gets up, still frowning, and hurriedly grabs some clothes. By the time he leaves Sebastian is snoring again.

Sherlock’s waiting by the police tape when John gets to the square, looking annoyed but wide awake. He glances over as the doctor approaches.

“Ah, good. Ready to take a look?”

“I guess.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing, nothing. It’s early – or, uh, late.”

“It’s more than that.”

John claps his hands against his legs as he thinks. “Sebastian.”

“Ah. Did he disagree with you taking the case?”

“No, no he encouraged me to come. He’s been...off lately.”

“How so?”

“He’s quiet, withdrawn. He gets these odd looks sometimes, staring into space like he’s listening to someone. He goes out by himself and comes home very drunk. He says he’s with friends but I don’t know if that’s true.”

“You’re worried.”

“Of course I’m worried. He’s upset about something and he’s not talking to me about it.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Would you like me to...I could try asking.”

“Oh god no! No, it’s better if I handle it, believe me.”

“Alright. Would you like to take a look at our victim?”

“Sure. Thanks though, for offering.”

Sherlock raises the police tape. “No problem.”

John ducks underneath, missing the perturbed look on his partner’s face.

 

Sebastian watches cricket on the couch while John cooks. He can hear the spatula scraping at the metal pan, the sizzle of meat and the humming exhaust fan. He can hear the cars outside, the people next door having an argument again. It’s too much noise, too much to deal with right now. On the TV the player hits a six and the echoing thud of contact between ball and bat makes Sebastian’s skin itch.

He stands. “I’m going to take a walk.”

“What? We’re about to eat.” John waves the spatula at the plates already set out.

“Won’t take long. I need to grab a paper.”

“Seb, wait.”

The door slams shut and John huffs in frustration. He knows better than to chase after Sebastian. He puts down the utensil and turns off the stove, dishing out their dinner. He puts Sebastian’s in the oven to keep warm and sits at the table by himself. He looks at the empty place and groans, pushing his chair back. He takes out his phone and dials.

“Sherlock?”

“John – is something wrong?”

“I needed someone to talk to.”

“Go on.”

 

Sebastian isn’t sure where he’s going but he keeps walking, head down against the wind. He lights cigarette after cigarette, the lighter’s flame fluttering. He can’t be in the flat tonight, can’t be contained in four walls. It’s eating him alive, the doubt, the not-knowing. Where is Jim? Did he ever really know him? Maybe Rich Brook really existed, maybe he never saw Moriarty the whole time they worked together – maybe he was fucking a complete stranger all along. Without meaning to he ends up outside his old flat, the one he’d shared with Jim (or the man claiming to be Jim, at any rate). He spares a glance up at the building, biting his thumb before taking another shaky drag. He could go up, make sure the maniac was really gone.

He makes it through the lobby easily and picks the locks with the skill of long practice. Sebastian pauses with his hand on the knob. He hasn’t seen the inside of the place for months, almost a year. What if it was empty? He swings the door open and takes a sharp breath.

It’s not empty – in fact, it looks exactly the same as the day Jim left for the hospital. His notes are still spread over the coffee table, his breakfast mug still in the middle of the island. Sebastian walks through the flat like a ghost, not touching anything, drinking in the eerie quiet atmosphere. It was never so still with Jim around. He walks into the bedroom – Jim’s old room. Sebastian’s is empty, everything moved to the flat with John. This bed looks like it was slept in yesterday. Maybe Jim’s alive, still living here. He presses a hand to the covers and knows it’s not true though. Jim would never hide in the shadows once he knew Sherlock was still alive.

Sebastian sobs, the sound sticking in his throat. He crouches by the edge of the mattress, burying his nose in the blankets as he howls.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go! You were supposed to win, remember? We were going to celebrate. Tour the Caribbean, buy some new suits, fuck until we couldn’t move and laugh whenever we saw Sherlock’s face on the telly.”

He sinks his face further into the bed and closes his eyes, wanting to shut out everything but the truth – he’s just not sure what that means.

 

Sherlock edges towards the flat. There’s noise, music, something a bit punk. He tentatively grips the knob and turns. The flat is dark, lit only by the flickering light of the huge TV playing a music video. It blares out of the speakers obnoxiously. Moran’s sitting on the windowsill, one leg up and a cigarette hanging laconically from his lips, open bottle of gin in his hand. His shirt’s unbuttoned and his chest is covered in scars of all sizes that gleam slightly in the half-light.

“I thought I might find you here.”

The ex-assassin closes his eyes and growls. “What do you want? Haven’t you taken enough?”

“John called. He was concerned. I thought I might be able to find you.”

“Why do you care? If I’m not around you can have him all to yourself.”

“I don’t want that. John loves you; I want him to be happy.”

Sebastian chuckles darkly. “Sure. I’m exactly the type you want to see with your sweet Johnny.”

“No, actually, but he seems to think you’ve changed and I’m willing to trust his judgement.”

“Did dying give you a new perspective, Holmes?”

“Almost dying did, yes. Want to tell me why you’re sitting in a dead man’s flat drinking what looks like the entire contents of his liquor cabinet?” Sherlock kicks aside an empty vodka bottle, treading his way through the various containers littering the floor.

Sebastian curls his lip. “Well Jim had a very full collection. I’ve barely made a dent.”

“Why are you here, Moran?” Sherlock says, standing much closer now.

Sebastian looks up at him woefully. “It’s your fault, you know. All of it. He was so obsessed he had to kill himself because he literally couldn’t live without you.”

“Perhaps. I don’t think either of us will ever truly understand why he did it.”

“What was it like, huh? Watching him pull the trigger? Did you feel like a murderer?”

“You knew he was dead, Sebastian. My return may have given you a sliver of hope but you always knew he was gone.”

He looks back out the window, shoulders slumped. “Maybe I was hoping he was still around so when John runs back to you I wouldn’t be alone.”

“John’s not going to leave you.”

“Isn’t he? You call and he jumps.”

“Habit, I assure you. I’m sure you’re his top priority.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, like all those poor folks before me who tried to get between the two of you.”

“Sebastian, I am not good at emotions or talking, but I came here because despite my reservations concerning your past, John loves you. He believes you love him. Is he wrong?”

“No.” He mumbles.

“Then perhaps you should forget Jim. Whatever you had with him is gone, and that Sebastian could never have made John Watson fall in love with him.”

Sebastian looks up tearfully. “I don’t deserve him.”

“Try harder then.”

 

“Seb!” John beams as he opens the door.

Sherlock helps the taller man through, arm slung around his bony shoulders. Sebastian stumbles and John rushes to help.

“What happened? Is he okay?”

“Nothing a few hours sleep won’t fix.” Sherlock smiles.

They get him on the couch and Sebastian slumps down, smiling groggily. “Hey Johnny.”

“Hey Seb. I’m just going to talk to Sherlock in the kitchen for a second, ‘kay?”

“Okay.” His head lolls back.

The two men move into the other room, John gripping his arm anxiously.

“What happened?”

“He got very drunk. He’s been driving himself half mad, wondering if Moriarty faked his death too.”

“Oh,” John looked down, “Right. Course.”

“John, I don’t think he’d pick Jim over you if he could. I think he was more concerned about you not needing him anymore. Now that I’m...well, back.”

“I already told him that’s not going to happen.”

“Tell him again. You have to admit it’s hard for him to believe you considering your history with partners.”

John presses his tongue against his front teeth. “You’re right. I’m not ‘Confirmed bachelor’ John Watson anymore. I can’t chase around after you the way I used to, Sherlock. Sebastian has to come first.”

“I think so.”

“You’re alright with that?”

Sherlock smiles. “I never expected to be able to keep you, John. It’s like I said – I’m married to my work. I put it above everything else. It’s only sensible you should do the same for your other half.”

“Thank you, Sherlock. For understanding and for finding him, getting him home.”

“I owed you.” He says simply, letting himself out.

John sighs and sits next to Sebastian. The blond nuzzles into his neck.

“M’sorry I’ve been such an idiot.”

“Me too. You shouldn’t ever feel like you’re not the most important thing in my life.”

“What about Sherly?” he slurs, frowning.

“He can learn to share.”

Sebastian chortles in a thick gurgle. “That’ll be the day.”

“Well he doesn’t have a choice. It’s Seb first, Sherlock second from now on, okay?”

“You’re too good to me.”

“Nah,” John smiles, “I’m a bit of a tosser, really.”

Sebastian snorts. “Lucky for you I’m into that.”

“Lucky for me.”


End file.
